


Napoleon and Illya and the Smallest Hotel Room in the World

by storiesfortravellers



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Bickering, Control Issues, First Kiss, Gabby has plans, Hotels, M/M, Pining, Small Rooms, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 21:11:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16920453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/pseuds/storiesfortravellers
Summary: For the prompt: "They have to stay at a hotel for a mission and of course Gaby 'accidentally' books them in the smallest room together"For WordsAblaze - Hope you like!





	Napoleon and Illya and the Smallest Hotel Room in the World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WordsAblaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsAblaze/gifts).



Napoleon really hated Gabby.

Yes, she was basically his best friend (if someone like Solo did cutesy little things like have best friends, that is).

But still – he really hated her sometimes.

Because Napoleon was positive that she had intentionally booked the smallest hotel room in all of Europe for him and Peril. 

She was probably laughing at the thought right now.

“It’s tiny,” Napoleon grumbled as they stood in the room. The doorway was just a foot from the bed, and a miniscule table heaved in the corner, the top hanging over the opposite corner of the bed. There wasn’t more than a couple feet of extra walking space on any side of the bed, in fact.

“It’s not the size, it’s how you use it,” Illya chided, and proceeded to put his suitcase on the bed and unpack.

Napoleon sighed and did the same, taking the far side of the bed. Illya would want to be closer to the door; if someone came barging in to attack, Illya would insist on being in point position, so there was no point arguing. 

Napoleon took out his toothbrush, comb, razor, and shaving cream, and carried them to the bathroom. He put them on the left side of the sink – Illya preferred the right, and since the next few days were sure to be a barrage of complaints and nitpicking from Peril, with literally no space away from him, he might as well minimize the annoyances.

He went out and finished unpacking, and Illya was just finishing sweeping the room for bugs. Of course Illya wanted to do a fourth check around the entire block then, so Napoleon could at least finish unpacking in peace. It’s not like there was room for two people to hang things up in the closet anyway – there was barely room to stand between it and the bed. 

After unpacking, Solo took another look around the room. The table was wedged up against the corner, and that wouldn’t do at all. He had to move the bed even closer to the closet to make room, and then he slid out the table so that a chair and an Illya-sized person could sit with his back to the corner. Asking Peril to sit any other way was just asking for a series of pedantic comments on the tactical value of sitting or some such nonsense.

He sighed again as he looked at the cramped room. Stuck in this little space, with all the pressure of the mission, he and Illya were going to constantly be at each other’s throats. Not to mention that they were going to have to share a bed. Which always ended with awkward sleep cuddling followed by Illya pretending it never happened. 

Illya came back then, and gave a quick glance around the room. “You know, when you moved the bed, the bedcover moved off center,” Illya said. “I will fix it.”

“What would the world do without your perfectionism?” Solo asked.

Illya ignored him and straightened the bedspread. Then, he finished unpacking, leaving Solo to go over the files. Of course, Illya took time to criticize Solo for leaving his razor on the sink, since apparently, putting your razor on top of your washcloth is far superior. Napoleon managed to ignore that and focus on chatting about the job, but Illya of course kept insisting that they do the mission his way.

“You know what? I saw a café a couple of blocks away,” Napoleon said, mostly to avoid a fight. “I’ll pick us up some dinner.”

“Don’t dawdle, cowboy, this is not a vacation,” Illya muttered while ironing a white shirt. 

Napoleon rolled his eyes and walked out, happy for some fresh air and solitude. He tried not to dwell on how Illya looked as he had stood there, thin white undershirt hiding nothing as he meticulously ironed. Solo was getting much better at repressing his desire to fuck Illya, but not getting much better at tolerating whatever Illya had where other people had a personality. Sharing a few square feet with him was going to be a huge pain in the ass.

Luckily, when he got to the café, the place smelled great, and the locals eating there all seemed happy – a good sign that he’d found a decent dinner. Better yet, they had chicken and dumpling soup – one of the few things that could actually shut Illya up for more than a second. He got a large container of soup, chicken breasts, potatoes, and some roasted vegetables, all packed to go, left the server a generous tip, and walked back.

Illya smiled when he saw the soup. Well, not really a smile. Rather, his scowl slightly de-clenched.

They ate in relative silence, Illya sitting with his back to the corner of course, and Solo sitting sideways on the bed, and it wasn’t so bad. The food was good, if ordinary, and it was nice to eat a hot meal without having to put on a show for a mark. It was comfortable – the dinner, not the room.

When they were done, Illya gathered the containers and washed them in the bathroom sink – “You’re not going to throw those away, are you? So wasteful,” he had said, and Solo had magnanimously let it slide, turning his attention to one last review of the files.

“Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” Illya said when he was done, leaning in the bathroom doorway, arms folded.

“Yes,” Solo said testily. 

Illya tilted his head, then walked around Solo, gently turning him to look him over front and back. It would have been infuriating to anyone not accustomed to Peril’s obsession with being in control. 

“No,” Illya said, “You cannot go out looking like that. You are posing as my business partner, and my cover identity is a wealthy businessman. Your pants got wrinkled in our travel, and I wouldn’t do business with someone so disheveled – take them off.”

“What?”

“They need to be ironed. Take them off.”

Illya was really unbelievable sometimes.

Solo reminded himself that the level of ironed-ness of pants was not worth getting into a fistfight with Illya Kuryakin over. He took his dark blue pants off and handed them to Illya, who promptly started ironing them, leaving Solo to talk over their plan for sweet-talking the mark while sitting there in his underwear. 

Finally, Illya handed him his pants back and Solo quickly put them on. Peril, of course, was still eyeing him. 

“My shirt is fine,” Solo snapped. 

Illya held his hands up. “I’m just trying to help, cowboy.”

“I don’t need that much help, buddy.”

Illya looked confused. “I just want you to know that I notice things too.”

“What?”

Illya paused. “You’ve made things… nice. You keep your things on your side of the sink. You moved the table so I can sit in a tactically acceptable position. You bring my favorite soup. You noticed the things I could use. So I am … noticing the things you could use.” 

Napoleon stared for a good long second. 

Leave it to Illya to think that bossing Solo around was the best way to be a good roommate.

Still, it was -- in a very terrible, very annoying, very Peril way -- kind of sweet.

Solo smiled. “So this is your way of telling me that you like to reciprocate?” he joked with a wink.

Illya looked uncomfortable, and Solo realized that he had hit on something – that to Illya, it wasn’t a joke at all. 

“Because that’s cool with me,” Solo added. 

Illya’s mouth de-clenched a little. He stepped closer to Napoleon, then paused.

And there it was.

No one but Napoleon would have noticed. He was a world class conman and thief and better than almost any spy at reading people, and he was one of the few people in the world to witness Illya Kuryakin feel something, so there’s no way someone else would have picked up on it. But Solo did.

Illya was nervous.

Wonders never cease. 

Napoleon leaned in, bridging the space, and kissed him, soft, and Illya returned it, his hand gently coming up to caress Napoleon’s jaw. Napoleon pressed in then, aggressive, and, just as expected, Illya got competitive, pushed his tongue in deep slow circles in Napoleon’s mouth, claiming him. Soon, Solo’s back was against the wall, Illya’s hands wide and strong around Solo’s hips, Illya’s mouth working utter fucking magic on his mouth, his neck, his chest.

“You know what I am thinking, cowboy?” Illya said, pausing, breathing hard already.

“What?”

“Gabby booked this stupid, tiny room on purpose so we would get on each other’s nerves,” Illya said, and they both looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“We’ll have to plan some sort of retaliation,” Solo said with a smile.

Illya looked Napoleon up and down. “We can do that later.”


End file.
